


A Shortage of Good Things

by celticvampriss



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: F/M, First Time, Oral Sex, Smut, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 14:08:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5294123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celticvampriss/pseuds/celticvampriss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SS and MacCready are camped for the night in the middle of the wasteland.  And there is such a shortage of good in this world, he'd be crazy to let it pass by.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Shortage of Good Things

**Author's Note:**

> This is my attempt at some F!SSxMaccready (and the first time I've written smut in awhile). This is based on my SS: Lily, but I didn't use her name. I just really like MacCready as a companion, character, romantic interest--pretty much anything. So I wrote this as pure indulgence and it's basically in the same vein of "we're camped for the night and we have sex." Enjoy. ^_^
> 
> (Also, I've read most of what's posted on here for these two and there seems to be a consensus/trend in how to write Mac's inner monologue? I just sort of channeled that for this story. But there are so few fics of him and I really wanted to write something with him and the SS so please forgive any similarities, it's seems we all think Mac's very babbly in his own thoughts.)

They’re set up for the night. More or less holed up in a recently evicted Raider camp. It’s already set up with a fire, a few chairs, some much needed supplies, a couple mattresses—enough for each of them—and all that junk the boss likes to pick up and make him carry.

She’s just finished her thorough search.  She’s sitting and roaming through that Pip-Boy on her wrist. He imagines they’re pretty handy, considering it’s not the first one he’s seen and not the first time he’s spent countless minutes standing in wait while the wearer fiddled with the dam— _dang_ thing. He’s watching her with half interest, thinking two things. First, that he would not mind if they could indulge a bit in those salvaged bottles of alcohol he knows she’s picked up. Second, all in all he’s not regretting his decision to take up with her in the slightest.

When she finally looks up from her wrist, she notices him watching and her too red lips quirk in a smile. She asks him for his thoughts and he’s not discreet when he replies, “I'd kill for a drink,” then he adds, almost as an afterthought, “Come to think of it, I have.”

The boss shares a bottle with him and sets down the rest—surprisingly a lot actually, how long has she been storing all of it?—but he’s not complaining. It’s warm and a bit off, but it does the trick. The booze trickles down his throat and lights his insides in warmth and ease. They don’t get drunk, there are better places for that and the middle of the night in the midst of the wasteland with no real cover is not one of them, but there’s definitely a buzzed feeling going on. Not so much to impair judgment, but more along the lines of bringing up what’s already there, simmering, and making it sound like not such a crazy idea.

He’s already opened up to her more than he has anyone else. He trusts her. It was a difficult leap for him, but after a few months of wandering around he’s come to appreciate her fighting style and found they shared more than a few interests. A penchant for the odd sarcastic remark among them. Hel...eck.  Heck, they were only out here right now, risking her neck, because of him. She hadn’t needed to help him out. God knows that favors were almost nonexistent in a world where people ran on survival mode twenty-four seven. She hadn’t asked him for anything in return, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel the weight of that debt.

So here they are. With mortal peril around every corner. Working with a severely limited supply of _good_. Out here, in his life, there were only moments of not suffering. He’d slept cold more often than he didn’t. He rarely ate anything that was palatable and even rarer was it truly filling. Those moments where he could feel something good were like an oasis in his memory, they lingered longer than any other for how rare they were, but every time it seemed another was too far away to ever be real again. There were so many gaps between ‘barely get by’ and ‘I could get used to this.’ He doesn’t know her story. He doesn’t know if she’s seeing what he’s seeing right now, in the way the firelight hits her distant grey eyes or glares in the red—definitely some sort of cosmetic, as rare as _those_ were—of her mouth.  He doesn't know if her thoughts are turning toward the same amorous activities...and he could kick himself with out often his thoughts have taken that turn recently.  He tries to catch her eye, just a quick glance to check.

And it’s not like it’s a never possibility. He’s definitely considered it, her, before, in passing. He spent so many hours hunched down, sneaking just behind her to _not_ have allowed his gaze to waver every so often. And that buzz dulling some of his finer instincts has turned off those warning alarms that blare in his head when his ideas get a bit too personal about him and her and what could be or what shouldn’t. Or what is.

He’s still working on his first bottle, nursing it slowly. It may just be him, his imagination, his slightly slight inebriation reading into what’s not really there, but there’s a charge happening in the space between them. He realizes there’s not much space to speak of, either. She’s slouched down near the fire, her shoulders are close to his side while he’s leaned back against some containers. And it really feels like there’s something there, some heightened awareness that can’t just be him. It can’t be one sided.

But he can't risk it. Didn’t matter how potentially good it would feel, he doesn’t want to risk what they have going right now. At least…well, definitely not yet. Not with so much on the line. And, honestly, he’s really not sure he wants to lose this one. They haven’t talked often, he really doesn’t know that much about her, but he’s pretty sure he could easily tip over the edge of friendly respect into something infinitely more significant.

 _Whoa there. Cool your jets._

He almost laughs to himself, settling back so that his hat tilts down and shields his eyes from the firelight. He is definitely glad he’d reigned in and kept all that to himself. Imagine, if he’d acted on those half buzzed delusions, he’d be regretting it. Now, all he had were some silly musings to look back on as a testament to one of the few of his better decisions.

That is, until he feels her shifting next to him. He’s not bothered at first, she’s probably about to go find one of those mattresses and leave him to first watch. Except he hears the shuffling of her limbs across the concrete, like she’s crawling instead of walking, and he feels weight suddenly in his lap.

MacCready’s hat tips up with the pressure of her finger and there is nothing but her face, back-lit by firelight, and a look in her steel eyes that pins in him place. So MacCready does the one thing he’s ever been very good at that didn’t involve a gun, he babbles. “Hey, Boss, what’s, uh…what’s up?”

She swallows. He can see the muscles in her creamy throat contract. There’s a trace of alcohol on her breath and he worries briefly that she may have overdone it and that whatever was about to happen would be taking advantage. Except when she talks, there is not slur or indecision in her voice. She’s clear and alert, though her eyes—which are so close he can tell—are clearly dilated, he suspects that’s less to do with the alcohol and more to do with what she’s just said, and the mountain of implication that went with it.

“I just want to know, where we stand.” She says, again, when he’s gone dumb and mute because she's in his lap, warm and solid and she feels good there.

She doesn’t wait for his reply. She breathes in and molds her mouth against him, those red, red lips full and firm and fuc-freacking heaven.

That’s all it takes, really, to squelch his not five seconds ago relief in not initiating exactly what was currently happening. He’d thought this would be a bad idea? Screw that. More of her weight is crushing into his lap, her thighs coming around to straddle him, her body lifting as she rises to her knees so that she's at a higher angle as she draws long pulls with lips and teeth—God, he is not capable of thinking outside of the present. So screw the future.

Her hands are on his face, raking back and into his hair, mussing up the lay of his hat so that it’s still on, but at a wrong angle. He’s here for this, for whatever she wants. He’s gripping hard into her hips and when she drags her teeth along his lip he groans low in his throat, awaking something deep and long buried in his chest. He’s not averse to seeking out pleasures when he can, again they were hard enough to come by without turning down the odd offer or two, but this wasn’t at all like that. Even with…and he thinks of her name just long enough to pause. There’s a flicker of guilt. Because he’s really not felt this kind of thing in…maybe ever.

“What’s wrong?” Her voice had always been lower, _almost_ raspy, but it's husky now and the sound of it sends a shudder through him. He may have been right the first time. Or second. He can’t remember which, he just remembers that his fear of this turning into something outside his control was not only imminent, but possibly too late to avoid.

He wants to say as much, but she runs her nose against his, antsy, playful, still 100% in the mood and he’s not strong enough for a lot of things, so he’s definitely not strong enough to say no.

“Nothing. Sorry about that, I just needed some air. Not that I mind, suffocation by kiss is not a bad way to go.”

Her feels her smile against his lips and oh shit, he’s in really deep.

"If you're not up for it, we can stop." There's hesitation in her voice, a question mixed in there.

"God, no, are you kidding?"  He has to use his hands to prompt her to look at him again when her eyes drift, a shyness that he's never seen in her before--and not expected given the way she handles herself out there--and there's pain, there's uncertainty.  It's like looking in a goddamn mirror.  The honesty spooks him.

"Look, boss, this only goes as far as you do."  He pauses--he can't help that his fingers caress the skin on her cheeks, her neck, her scalp, soothing her unease--and so he smiles a bit, lightens the mood.  "Though, ya know, I ain't complaining."

She laughs a bit, which is far too satisfying, and says, "Mac, you're always complaining."

Their faces are so close together this casual exchange feels normal and yet charged, the same way he felt the space between them with this restless energy of pent up action.  He meets her eyes in the quiet that's settled between them and she thanks him, softly and for what, exactly, he's not sure.  Then she's kissing him again, hard.

Somehow they shirk off a good few layers of old, dusty, blood spattered clothes and armor and lay out his coat so that the mattress isn’t completely bare when he topples with her onto it, both of them grabbing and caressing and kissing like it was the end of the world all over again. And maybe it was. ‘World’ could be subjective.

He’s slow and deliberate when he helps her with that last layer. There’s less light here, but the moon is bright enough to see by and he doesn’t need to see to feel how fucking soft and warm and real she is. Touch was as rare as anything else, moments like this required a fair bit of trust and MacCready didn’t give out his easily. So, yeah, the fact that she was a real body, a soul that, for some reason he couldn’t even think, wanted him was as much a turn on as that thing she's doing with her tongue.

Underneath the clothes, with his face right up against her, laving attention on the parts that make her pant just a bit harder, she even _smells_ good. Which is a fucking feat, as far as he’s concerned. Or maybe the sex haze has him reading things wrong, but it doesn’t really matter because when her fingers squeeze once again through his hair she almost pants his name, once, under her breath and holy fuck, he can’t hold it together anymore.

Then she flips them both, pinning him into that old mattress and rolling her hips teasingly along his straining pants. His fingers dig into whatever he can reach, his coat still underneath them, is bunched in his fists as she starts to undo his pants. And he would have helped, anything to get his fucking clothes off _now_ , but her breath puffs against his hard dick and he stops breathing. Stops moving. Every muscles holds tight, waiting, anticipating.  Motherfucker.  It’s not even fair—

Her tongue licks once up the entire length of him then off again.  He's gasping now, clenching his teeth.  Shit.  It's been so long.  He won't make it.  She stops working him over with her tongue, using a hand and then taking him deep into her mouth, sucking and moaning like his dick was reducing Rads or healing crippled limbs.  He literally whimpers, his jaw hanging open with the promise of more embarrassing curses or exclamations to follow because-shit-his blood is on fire and she's working ecstasy through him better than any drug he's ever attempted.  

If he lets this continue, he is going to finish in her mouth.  Like soon.  Like now.  And he wasn't about to go out after barely a few minutes of foreplay. Because apocalyptic wasteland. And good things hard to find. Etc.  They had time for more than a few minutes and a quick blow job. And he would be completely remiss if he didn’t return the favor with interest.

He can’t articulate his thoughts, his speech is too labored, so he pushes against her shoulder until she comes up for air, her mouth glistening and a smile on her lips that is just the right mix of mischievous grin and sensual.

Once free, when his blood could settle down just a bit and he could catch his breath, he sits up and captures her mouth again. He’s not holding back anything as the kiss, despite what’s happened already, the fact that her bare chest brushes his and his dick is still painfully erect, it evolves into something slow and tender completely outside his control. He’s cupping her face in his hands, letting emotion slip in where there should really only be lust. He’s too invested in her at the moment to panic, but he does think, in the back of his head, that it’s very possible she’ll turn him away at this obvious display of ‘hey, this might be more than just sex for me.’

But instead she melts, fucking sighs into him so that her body is flush with his and there is no room between them, and she places her hands on his chest so lightly. He’s a mess now. Truly a mess. He’s jacked up on the need to fuck and also drowning in the maybe more that’s spilling out of them, laying way too much on the table. Too much on the line. It’s all out there now, not in words, but in action. He’s gentle with his hands, stroking through soft, scarlet hair. Threading with the strands that are silky beneath all the dirt and grease.

He eases back, forehead resting against hers. They’re clinging to each other in the moonlight, in the middle of the wasteland, naked in every way possible. He breathes out, wavering slightly.

For once in his life, he doesn’t ruin the moment with words. He doesn’t babble. He _does_ dip close to kiss her again, this time while easing her down, guiding her and shifting their positions so that she’s on her back and he can roam freely. He makes sure to tease her, payback for before, dancing over her body everywhere but where she clearly wants him. She’s writhing and squirming and trying to knock his hand into place when he strokes up her thigh. He’s laughing, chuckling into the meat of her leg while she growls. Payback is a bitch.

But then it’s really not so much teasing _her_ as it is teasing _him_. Cause he can’t stand being this close, when she’s that wet, and not touch. Her hips buck into his face when he finally gives in, tasting her and drawing his tongue up and around and then into her. Her muscles are quaking as they wrap over his shoulders and draw him in closer. God, he could drown in her and consider himself lucky.

“Shit…” she breathes, her body arcs so she can grab one of the crates behind them and hold on, her hips unconsciously grinding, and he prompts her with his hands to fuck him like that, to not hold back because she has to know that this is driving him crazy, too. That he could almost get off just on the taste of her or the sounds she’s making.

He can tell when she finishes because she gets violent. Her hands turn to claws and she digs in her heels and she jerks and gasps and clenches and releases. And he’s in blissful heaven until she settles down and she hauls him up her body, then re-positions him so she's on top and they're both a mess and wet and too aroused to care.  She moves her hips until she finds the right angle, the right alignment, and doesn't hesitate to ease herself down and he's completely buried inside her in that one motion. Then she’s moving, she’s riding him straight into oblivion. He can’t really think of anything or do anything.  He attempts to sit up, to work his lips and teeth over her chest the way she'd liked earlier, but he can't even breathe properly and he falls back again so she can switch between thrusting and rolling her hips into him.  The best his completely weak, overstimulated brain can offer is for his hands to hold her hips and at least pretend like he's contributing.  She grabs onto the crates that surround them like a sort of room, closing them off from the rest of the camp, and she's starting to moan again, starting to whisper under her breath and curse and his name slips in there once or twice.  They’re getting sweaty despite the cool air and the mattress is almost creaking, definitely won’t hold up to the way they’re going at it.

He can just feel the clenching of muscles and that rushed "shit-shit-shit-shit" as she finished, riding out her climax into him which is a blessing because he really couldn't last another second.  He warns her as best he can before, so she can act accordingly, and she uses her hand to work the last tremors out of him then collapses next to him, her head on his shoulder, and her nails tracing patterns on his chest.

It’s really not practical to sleep like that so they clean off as best they can manage and redress. One of them should keep watch, but both end up falling asleep, together, tangled for warmth and cuddling like this is what they’ve always done. And it’s so easy with her. He can’t really process how they got from wherever they stood last night to this morning, where they wake up holding each other and she kisses him gently awake.

He doesn’t think he deserves it, either. But there are worse than him getting what they don’t deserve so why not him, too? He has to rationalize it because he doesn’t think he could give this up. He doesn’t really want to. They pack up their things and move on, guarding each other’s backs and mostly back to business as usual.

Except that there are so many differences. She’s more flirty. There’s casual touching. She even pulls him into another kiss or twelve when they’re in the clear and they can afford to indulge a bit in distractions.  It's a very welcome upgrade from mercenary and employer to this trusting partnership with benefits they have going.  He's not ready to call it more than that.  Not yet.  But he knows he's there.  He's attached to her more than he should be.  They're a good team.  They're good together.  It's a lot of _good_ all at once and he just doesn't want to blow it.

 


End file.
